


Fool Girl

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Qizzy can't flirt for nothing, Romance, adorable dorks are adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose this is why Mother Giselle suggested I keep a journal. I can see it now. Perhaps this is also a penance for my pride in which case I am even more firmly a believer in the Maker’s strange sense of humor than I previously was. With due remorse, then, I return back to the strange events of the morning out of which my musings sprang and to which they keep circling back (and how my cheeks burn even now, remembering!)."</p>
<p> From the private journals of Roxanne Trevelyan--her slow realization of her feelings towards the Commander of the Inquisition, one rambling paragraph at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool Girl

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: I’m trying something different this time; hope it comes across right. Yes, my sweet Trevelyan is quite messed up in the head. I am also fiddling around with the way the Inquisitor learns about Cullen’s decision not to take lyrium. I understand why the devs/writers did it a certain way for game reasons, but it irked me that even though you’re the leader of this huge organization, you don’t find out one of the main weaknesses of your Chief of Staff until slightly late for my taste.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Notes on quotes:**
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. The paragraph “All of the Fallow Mire is divided into three parts” is paraphrasing the opening of C. Julius Caesar’s De Bello Gallico. Roxanne’s personality and writing style tries to be partly Roman auctor/statesman, partly exuberant Edmond Rostand hero (think Cyrano de Bergerac) and partly Jane Austen heroine. I humbly ask for forgiveness for the mess; she is entirely my fault, while the rest belongs to Bioware.  
> 2\. “The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder,”—is from the Confessions of Augustine of Hippo.  
> 

_I'm just a stranger, even to myself._  
A re-arranger of the proverbial bookshelf.  
Don't be a fool girl, tell him you love him.  
Don't be a fool girl, you're not above him.  
_\--Ingrid Michaelson, Die Alone_

 

_From the personal journal of Roxanne Trevelyan_

As suggested by Mother Giselle, this journal shall serve as a collection of my observations and thoughts whilst journeying in service of the Inquisition. Personally it feels odd to entrust thoughts of such nature on paper; the Revered Mother, however, assures me this could be part of my on-going efforts to combat the affliction that plagued me ever since the Temple Breach Incident. She gifted me with this journal as well. I do hope she does not expect me to make progress reports the same way she questions me every time at the newly established chantry gardens as I dig through the soil. I have learned patience during my _chevalier_ training, but that and respect for the Chantry can only take one so far when peppered with deeply personal inquiries by one’s self-appointed spiritual advisor.

Mother sent a shipment of plants from her personal gardens, along with a handwritten copy of her recipe book ( _marginal note_ : _copy out the burn scar balm recipe for Elan and Adan, they will need it for the infirmary; the new surgeon seems to be capable but clueless in certain regards_ ). The letter that arrived alongside was long and meandering, very much the way her thoughts are, but I welcomed it with great joy. They thought us all dead after the destruction of the Temple, and then, merely weeks after finally reestablishing contact, the Elder One fell on Haven, and my family mourned me for the second time. To be able to reassure them, thanks to Leliana’s network of scouts, spies and ravens, that I am well and, moreover, was honored with leading an organization dedicated to serving the original intentions of Our Lady (or so I believe); it was beyond miraculous.

Mother was also thoughtful enough to inquire about the climate here before dispatching her crates of pots full of cuttings as it might have been difficult to establish some of the plants she has successfully cultivated in Ostwick under the more frigid weather of the Frostbacks. She, however, also sent along some drawings of a hothouse, which, I need to report with not a small amount of satisfaction, sent our new quartermaster Ser Morris to fits of enthusiasm and Josephine to question the validity of next month’s budget forecast in the strongest terms. After explaining to her, however, the needs this addition to our gardens might serve (supported most enthusiastically, I might add, by Solas who pointed out the healing qualities of certain plants we could obtain more readily in this manner), she acquiesced and Ser Morris could move forward with construction.

My parents also informed me that they are planning to visit Skyhold in the near future, provided Papa’s gout improves somewhat. However much Mother attempts to underplay the severity of the attacks, I cannot help but worry. He wasn’t at the best of health for years, and, despite the research Mother and Rhodri dedicate to improving their healing ointments, he is apparently in almost constant pain every day now. I, of course, inquired with both Solas and Vivienne regarding the possibility of a consultation when (and if) Papa makes the journey, and both were willing to dedicate some of their time to do so. I suppose there are some hidden advantages to holding the position with which I was entrusted.

What really puzzles me, though, is the last part of Mother’s letter: so much so that I thought it prudent to copy the passage here verbatim. I endeavor to record not only my own thoughts and feelings in this journal, but those that led them to manifest, after all.

“ _You have dedicated a large part of your missive to recount the events of your miraculous escape from your ordeals, my dear (and I lit a dozen candles by Our Lady_ _’_ _s altar at the Ostwick chantry, you can be sure). However, I couldn’t help but notice you describing the actions of a certain Commander of the Inquisition_ _’_ _s forces in greater detail than others_ _’_ _of your close acquaintance in your new role. Your father is, of course, of the opinion that the man was merely doing his duty. He also mumbled something about him being mixed up in that sordid business in Kirkwall but, of course, everyone was mixed up in that sordid business in Kirkwall who lived there; by extension we were mixed up in it too by employing Messere Fenris as our weaponmaster—I pointed that out to him, but you know how he gets. Now, me, on the other hand… but I wouldn_ _’_ _t want to pry. I_ _’_ _m just glad you pay attention to other things than your duties, swordplay, books and digging in the dirt.”_

That bothers me, I must confess. What might have given the notion to Mother that my thoughts regarding Commander Rutherford are anything other than the entirely justified professional appreciation of his qualities that allowed us to escape Haven with minimum possible casualties and to set up at our new headquarters with maximum speed and efficiency? I _might_ have dedicated a passing sentence or two to the kindness he displayed towards me in my less… fortunate moments when my affliction took me and his willingness to educate me further in the arts of war both with weapons and in the theory of warfare and high command, but Mother’s insinuation that I…

I promised to Mother Giselle that I would be truthful on these pages and hold nothing back; as I, at the moment cannot quite come to terms with what a closer examination of my past actions reveal, I shall set this particular train of thought aside, and dedicate the upcoming pages to notes regarding certain mission objectives here at the Fallow Mire region of Ferelden, our current location. These notes, at a later date, might also be added to others I have already taken, to serve as a recounting of sorts, of the deeds and action of the Inquisition in these troubled times.

…

All of the Fallow Mire is divided into three parts: in one of which, commonly known as Fisher’s End, most of the settlements are concentrated; the Avvar camps and settlements in the second, and the Mire proper, with its legions of undead, are the third. All these differ from each other in significant manner and while there are several other classifications of the landscape, this should serve for the purpose of this narrative. The forces of the Inquisition, after exhaustive reconnaissance by Chief Scout Harding’s platoon, arrived at the Fisher’s End camp at the second day of Parvulis ( _marginal note_ : _I have decided to use the scholarly notation of months; this will, no doubt, please Dorian greatly_ ) and, after brief rest, pushed forward into the Mire proper, disposing undead on the way, in order to ascertain the fate of missing Inquisition soldiers from the Third Company of Fereldan Infantry…

I shall stop there for now. I must admit, this seems a rather dry way of describing our grueling weeks in constant rain, thunder and lightning, the stink of dead flesh and fish, but as I shall take my examples from the classical authors of great campaigns ( _marginal note_ : _make sure to order Calenhad_ _’_ _s Memoirs for the library from Val Royaux_ ), it seems necessary.

Dorian has mentioned he might be able to use his still existing connections to obtain Darinius’ _Tevinter Campaigns_.  I tried to contain my enthusiasm; at the Academy we, of course, studied the badly preserved later commentaries on the original text, but to actually read the thoughts of the unifier of two kingdoms… Incidentally, during one of those long, drawn-out campfire discussions that are inevitable when one is on second watch, it seems we also found out we are third cousins twice removed. I have to write to Fredick once back in Skyhold: he is the current keeper of our family records and if anyone is able to decipher a supposed Tevene marriage to a great-great aunt, it is him. This, of course, partially explains why Dorian and I get along reasonably well, while still wanting to strangle each other on a fairly regular basis. We both have singularly strong personalities, according to him, and the drive to see our people succeed and shine, free of the yoke of whatever tyranny might threaten it; he just does it with a much better fashion sense, he says. He also plays chess. I discovered this yet again during one of those long watches. As Chief Scout Harding’s traveling set is somewhat weather-beaten (this is a euphemismfor ‘barely holding together’, actually) and on its last legs (currently a button is serving as one of the High Clerics, I am afraid), I shall discuss the need for something for Skyhold once we are back—I am confident Ser Morris knows just the right person for that job. Also, to replace the one Harding has, and maybe discussing the possibility of distributing some kind of game to each platoon so they have something else to do during downtime than drink…

That was unworthy of me. Also, this seems to be directly invading on Commander Rutherford’s sphere of responsibility. Albeit I am the head of the Inquisition, the troops are under his direct command. I am heading small special operations missions when out on the field; it does not follow I have the right to make decisions about his troops’ welfare over his head.

 

It would not hurt to mention it to him, though. It is possible to send regular missives back to Skyhold now that our communication lines are established, and during our last conversation it seemed we have reached a convivial enough understanding of our positions. I am deeply grateful for him allowing me to explain how it seemed to me he retracted his offer of camaraderie back in Haven. His apology was, no doubt, sincere, and the quality of his letters improved considerably since our conversation. All in all, I am most pleased by the way our conversation turned out; I would like to think that we parted as friends, reassured in our shared bond of harrowing experiences shaping the way we look at the world. At least his last remark that evening suggested that; ~~I obviously would be a complete fool to read anything more into it.~~ I might want to discuss with him the necessity of appearing in public in mixed company more often, though; no one of his age should blush and stammer the way he does when I mention anything even slightly out of line. His smile, though, more than makes up for it…

_Maker_. How treacherous this line of thought is; how did I get from discussing the regions of the Fallow Mire to reminiscing about the way ~~Cullen~~ Commander Rutherford smiles (however pleasant those memories might be)? I shall most definitely spend some time in prayer and contemplation once back at Skyhold.

 

And now, I believe it is time to turn in for the night; Cassandra is giving me the glare of someone who really would like to sleep but the light of the candle is keeping her up and she is too polite to mention it even though I know she has a book hiding under her blanket she was reading while I scribbled. But we shall not mention that, at least for now.

…

Well. I do not believe the stink shall ever wash out of my armoring doublet and gambeson, but at least the Fallow Mire is secure and pacified for the moment. I shall, in time, include my mission reports in the collection to chronicle the Inquisition’s deeds, but for now suffice to say that not only have we secured two camps and closed two Fade Rifts, but the primary objective of the mission, rescuing our captured patrol, was also achieved. Commander Rutherford should be pleased; our soldiers were exhausted and some of them bruised from rough handling by the Avvar that detained them none too gently, but all of them were found alive. In addition, their captors have been dealt with, and their leader, along with his closest allies, did not survive that encounter. 

As an unexpected, but welcomed side effect of our operation, some of the local tribesmen have decided to ally themselves with our cause. One of them, a shaman named Sky Watcher, shall prove most useful, I believe, as a free agent. I have dispatched a small escort of scouts with him to Skyhold, bearing a report to the advisory council, with the notion that I shall follow along once our clean-up activities are concluded. By clean-up I did not merely mean making sure the source of undead activity was discovered and neutralized (albeit that has been accomplished as well), but quite literally, making sure our persons, equipment and belongings were fit again for human contact after the weeks in the bogs. I am well acquainted with the hardships of campaigns by now, I believe, and even before the mantle of Herald and Inquisitor has been thrust upon me I could hardly have been considered a pampered Orlesian flower, but what we encountered in the Mire shall forever be remembered when the cooks are serving fish on Fridays. Or so Varric says.

I am, also, by now, an expert in washing clothes in shallow pools of water heated by magefire and have been gently instructed in the ways of scrubbing by none other but a scion of Nevarra’s royal family. Will wonders never cease? Cassandra, as I had ample opportunity to discover since we first started to travel together, is very familiar with self-sustenance methods and wilderness survival, and I finally managed to swallow enough of my oft-cursed aloofness and ask her for instructions which she readily provided. I still cannot make fire or boil water (I shall never live that down, Varric will make sure of that until the end of my days, I believe), but at least now I do not have to stow stinking clothes at the bottom of my pack and hope for the best. Progress, slow and inevitable, seems to be something I need to embrace, even if it is accompanied by the amused chuckles of a dwarf and a Tevene mage and the exasperated sighs of a Nevarran princess.

Mother Giselle also agrees I am making progress and should continue recording my musings. She, of course, did not ask to see the journal itself, which caused considerable relief, along with the realization that I must seem to be incredibly naïve in this regard ( _marginal note: see in library anything about the role of personal journals in later published memoirs, or else order treatises on such?_ ). She also was pleased by our recent acquisition of dawn lotus and blood lotus plants; after a day of intense replanting work, they are doing fine in the artificial pond we have built for the spindleweed. It was worth toting those horrible-smelling bog-filled leather bags across most of Ferelden, even more so after Leliana showed me the recipe she possesses for a substance our scouts can use for poisoning their blades. While I personally never would find use for such a thing, I can see the usefulness of it for those we rely on to gather intelligence or to dispose of advance forces quickly and with certainty. She also indicated Sera might have something to share regarding blood lotus usage and mentioned ‘bees’ in this context. I must confess I await _that_ discussion with slight trepidation.

As this is a personal journal of mine, I must, in all honesty, record a rather embarrassing incident in it as well, for posterity, along with its follow-up events. It happened the morning after our return to Skyhold, at breakfast that I normally take in the great hall along with many others, just like I did back in Haven. It helps with morale, and I am used to it: at home we always breakfasted together as a family, and at the Academy we rarely had privacy, in accordance with the traditions of that august institution. Therefore, there were quite a few dozen people witnessing when I managed to upend my plate full of bacon on Varric’s head when Commander Rutherford smiled at me.

It is not that I am clumsy; far from it. It is not even that the sight of a handsome man smiling should reduce me to a bumbling idiot (and even to an absolute uninterested party our Commander must seem like a veritable embodiment of dignified virility in its finest display). I had plenty of opportunity to get accustomed to that at the Academy—my very survival, in fact, depended on it. That I never chose to act upon the invitations those smiles so clearly conveyed was my choice, always carefully weighed and consciously decided as to be the best course of action. I was, in all honesty, never one to be considered acting ‘on a whim’ or, as some of my Academy friends put it ‘engaging in all of that emotion nonsense’. I would like to believe I do not think myself better than others, as some of my peers at those inevitable moments of confrontation liked to accuse me of.

I feel I  should expound upon that somewhat here. Due to my family’s position as a fairly insignificant power in the Free Marches, not to mention beyond, and due to my unfortunate lack of ability to express anything that touches upon the subject of feelings and emotions with any coherence, my prospects of securing a valuable, financially and socially advantageous alliance of the sort commonly known as a marriage have been growing more and more dim with each passing year. When I truly embarked upon the path of the warrior that I believed was my course in life as the next leader of our house, I was naturally aware of the increasing concern my parents expressed over my behavior. In plain words, they were desperate enough to send me to the Conclave as our house representative in hopes that I might meet a suitable match amongst the larger than usual sampling of eligible nobles. Now _why_ they entertained this notion, as all my years at the Academy in Val Royeaux did not fulfill their hopes in this regard, I cannot tell. What followed was clearly not quite what either they or I expected, to put it mildly.

But I digress, as I do all too often. Or, perhaps, I am delaying the inevitable analysis of my actions and the conclusions I might arrive. Those terrify me so much I have decided to push them down to the same place I keep the memories of the Breach and Haven. I would like to think it is not nearly as horrifying and yet…

The time grows late and I loathe burning so many candles merely to analyze my feelings. These lavish new quarters cause me to wince every time I see that the new infirmary is still only half-built: no need to add to the feelings of inadequacy right now. I shall finish for today, in hopes that I shall be able to recount what occurred with greater clarity and precision in the morrow.

…

 

I suppose this is why Mother Giselle suggested I keep a journal. I can see it now. Perhaps this is also a penance for my pride in which case I am even more firmly a believer in the Maker’s strange sense of humor than I previously was. With due remorse, then, I return back to the strange events of the morning out of which my musings sprang and to which they keep circling back (and how my cheeks burn even now, remembering!). But I must keep my recounting of events precise and to the facts, avoiding the trap of explaining my actions away with feeble excuses.

This was the first time in weeks that I saw the Commander. As I mentioned previously, we parted under much more amicable circumstances than I had hoped for based on his decidedly distant prior behavior. The few letters we have exchanged while I was traveling to, attending business in, and traveling back from, the Fallow Mire, while naturally mostly regarding Inquisition business, were written in a tone of a more, dare I say it, relaxed manner on both my end and his. It was something that, I must admit, pleased me a great deal. Due to my limited experience of exchanging correspondence with others than my family members, I have never observed reactions from myself such as when spying his particular handwriting on missives arriving into our camps.

As I recalled previously on these pages, in one of my own letters I had mentioned in passing the matter of Harding’s chess board as a fine, if somewhat battered, instrument of amusing ourselves between the more vigorous activities of our mission. In a reply I had received shortly before our departure, amongst other things of a nature more related to our overarching military strategy, Commander Rutherford was thoughtful enough to notify me that Skyhold now possessed several craftsmen who would be capable of producing such boards for morale building amongst our troops. As he remarked: ‘ _perhaps upon your return you may find that a game or two sprung up even at the Herald_ _’_ _s Rest_ _’_ and followed that by recounting the tale of him beating Iron Bull at the game. I _might_ have responded to that in a manner entirely inappropriate as to the office of the Inquisitor. In other words, I have been perhaps slightly too forward (my Academy days, I am afraid, have ruined me for being delicate forever), saying that this might not have been the case had I been the opponent.

His hastily scrawled response on the back of our last exchange I had received before my return issued a clear challenge. “ _P.S_. _I have not missed your remarks concerning my abilities as a chess player, Inquisitor,_ ” he wrote, and I read it with what Dorian, without any reason whatsoever, called a ‘smug’ grin on my face. “ _I suggest you practice with Master Pavus. A lot. I also have my own board now. Looking forward to it, C. R.”_

This hopefully serves as a somewhat understandable background as to why that morning I behaved in a manner more suitable for a clumsy sixteen-year-old being chivalrously greeted by the Champion of the Empress than for the leader of the Inquisition. My apologies rendered to Varric (‘ _at least it was bacon. Everything is better with bacon_ ’, he muttered, dabbing at his hair and neck with a handkerchief), and accepting a second plate of breakfast from Flissa who did take it upon herself to make sure I never lack for food while at Skyhold, I made my way to my original destination, and hoped that my facial expression was suitably neutral as I took my place next to the Commander. I was, of course, keenly aware that after the unfortunate accident with the rasher of bacon, more eyes were upon me than necessary, so for the remainder of the meal I restricted myself to polite and businesslike conversation. He inquired after my well-being and I assured him that apart from mosquito bites (countless) and the by then healed cracked rib courtesy of Hand of Korth (one), I was perfectly fine. Only towards the last forkful of eggs I interjected a casual mention of our proposed chess match and I was most pleased when he revealed (after the by now fully expected slight stammer and rubbing of neck) that he did have some time free in the afternoon. The time and place of our meeting agreed upon, I excused myself, citing my scheduled visits with Mother Giselle and Ser Morris, and decided to studiously ignore the odd expression on Dorian’s face as I exited the Hall towards my quarters.

My day progressed at a somewhat more rapid pace than I expected. This is, as I gradually came to realize, something that happens inevitably every single time I return from a mission. Duties, meetings, briefs, pressing or perceivably crucial matters that ‘only the Inquisitor can solve’ and the ever-present pile of documents to be reviewed and signed always ensures that before I know it, it is always ‘too late’ in the day for something. In this case I was more than fashionably late (even by Orlesian standards) showing up in the Chantry gardens, owing to Leliana’s briefing on the latest movements of the civil war between the Empress and his cousin Gaspard.

In my haste, I did not even notice that Commander Rutherford apparently acquired a chess partner whilst I was inexcusably absent.

“Are you… _sassing_ me, Commander?” I distinctly remember that question, and that particular verb: of course it was Dorian Pavus, _altus_ of Tevinter, and I fully expected Commander Rutherford to get all flustered and uncomfortable at that. Dorian, after all, is confident, extravagant, witty, wry and all too eager to embarrass anyone and everyone with shameless flirting, regardless of gender or race, as I oft witnessed in the course of our travels. I have never known Chief Scout Harding to blush as deep scarlet red as she did every single time she spied the Tevene; I honestly do not ever wish to know what it was Dorian said that forever after made Harding redden upon seeing him.

But there I go, digressing again. Journal-keeping appears to be more difficult than I originally thought. The ability of inserting one’s comments about what transpired and recording one’s emotional reactions with greater precision provides a significantly broader framework that is at once liberating and frightening. “ _The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder_ ,” one of the ancient Divines once said, and I cannot say I disagree. I shall strive for recording the events that led to one of the most important and disturbing realizations of my life with greater precision and order and less… meandering. In a way, _this_ shall be my punishment.

To my greatest surprise he appeared entirely at ease. Moreover, upon closing at the two of them at the chess table I had to observe that Dorian’s remark about that behavior he characterized with such a particularly descriptive word was quite justified. In all of our acquaintance I have never seen the Commander appearing in such a relaxed manner in any situation; not even during his training sessions with the recruits. I would be decidedly unfaithful to the truth if I state that this did not cause me to dwell upon his features perhaps a tad longer than it was deemed polite in good company. I, however, categorically reject Dorian’s later accusation about my mouth being open whilst doing so.

“Why do I even bother…” I heard him mutter as I came closer; both of them looked up as they heard my boots upon the gravel path but only Commander Rutherford shot out of his chair seeing me, the relaxed smile on his face replaced by startled realization.

“Inquisitor!”

“Leaving, are you?” Dorian laced his fingers behind his head and stretched, for all intents and purposes looking like one of the small feral cats ruling Skyhold before our arrival. Most of them cluster around the barn and the kitchens, oft seen basking in the sunlight and becoming less shy by the day with us. “Does this mean I win?”

Dorian never passes up an opportunity to throw a verbal barb and I have to watch for it almost by habit by now. The Inner Circle, my closest companions, is, undoubtedly, comprised of several highly competitive and strong-willed individuals. By them, Dorian’s constant needling is all too often interpreted as a direct challenge, and it will take a while for that notion to dissipate. I still shudder at the memory of he and Vivienne trading terse sentences that literally filled the air with sparks while the rest of us watched and wondered where would be a good place to hide if the two mages’ verbal sparring escalated to something more.

“Are you playing nice?” I could not help that my voice came out much like that of my aunt’s, used when she inquired about why my brand new gown was torn after a mock sparring match with Fredick. In retrospect, I should not have been surprised when I received the equivalent of a level stare, a haughty lift of a perfect eyebrow, and a clipped answer, assuring me that of course, _altus_ Dorian Pavus was _always_ nice. My assumption, of course, was that he cheated—he usually does that when _we_ play.

“You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory,” he assured the Commander, turning his attention back to the board and moving his High Cleric. “You’ll feel much better.” 

I surveyed the board and was distinctly disinclined to share his optimism. As I am completely honest on these pages (and indeed that makes me slightly uncomfortable), I need to state that while I am not the best chess player (not even amongst my own family), I am perfectly capable of deducing when one is completely and utterly eliminated and does not even realize it. Dorian is a lovely person, and he has the mind of a Tevene aristocrat, that is true, but the Commander is an ex-Templar officer, the leader of an army that has been tried and tested by fire several times, and a military strategist _par excellence_ as they say at the Academy. He has played out campaigns, skirmishes, and battles as equivalents of chess matches with actual _people,_ on paper and in real life. For _decades._

And I _challenged_ him to a match, to which I arrived late. The realization should have filled me with slight dread—instead, all I felt was a frisson of excitement the way the world normally slid to focus before a higher exam at the Academy.

“Really?” The Commander’s queen clicked on the board and Dorian frowned slightly. “Because I just won.” There was a chuckle and I definitely felt my stomach clench in a not entirely unpleasant way as he leaned back in his chair. “And I feel fine.” 

“Don’t get smug.” Dorian threw up his hands and his voice was sour as he rose from his chair. This was the second time he used a descriptive term that I never would have associated with Commander Rutherford. I must admit, however, that the smile that was playing around his lips at that moment fit the mage’s description. “There will be no living with you.”

I stepped closer, and because I could not resist needling Dorian a bit (I suppose this was, from my part, an attempt at payback for all his remarks towards my companions), smiled at him with my best approximation of an Orlesian lady.

“I appreciate you keeping my seat warm, _cousin_.” I paused for effect. Dorian somehow always brings out the part of me that positively enjoyed _that_ particular part of my years in Val Royeaux. “Even though the Tevene playing style is perhaps not _quite_ up to what the Commander might have expected.”

“Kick the mage while he’s down, will you?” Dorian muttered, but his eyes were dancing. “Perhaps you shall be more fortunate in… conquering his defenses?”

“I am hardly an expert at strategy,” I demurred, then realized what his words might have implied and, in all honesty, contemplated something entirely unprofessional and violent that I might have regretted later. Instead, I decided to ignore the remark and the inevitable images it conjured. (I wonder why this rattles me so when I endured much worse at the Academy?) “If the Commander forgives my lateness, perhaps he still cares for a game?”

He tilted his head and nodded slowly, gesturing at the vacated chair. I sat, watching his hands preparing the board and listening to Dorian’s steps fade in the distance.

“I appreciate your patience,” I said at last. He was in full armor again, except the simple leather gloves one wears under the gauntlets, and I could not help but wonder if he always started his day this way. I knew it wasn’t his turn with the recruits today: I am privy to the schedule of all of the advisors, and his is fairly predictable. That day it was Cassandra spending training time with the recruits, and the Commander with requisitions and arms and armor development, meaning he had meetings with Ser Morris, Rylen, his second-in-command, Harritt, our blacksmith, and our new arcanist, Dagna.

Naturally, if I am being completely honest with myself (and I am supposed to, as I so often have to remind myself on these pages), the reason for the full armor each and every day _is_ rather apparent, at least for me. I have done very much the same during my years at the Academy, drawing endless stares and verbal criticism of various stages from sniggers to downright hostile remarks. I convinced myself it was to develop the musculature of the female body to the sufficient degree that is necessary to bear the heavy armor of a _chevalier_ ; towards the end of my last year I even saw some of the few female students starting to do the same. My actual reason, the one I hid from everyone, though, was the very real, very physical barrier the steel plates delineated towards everyone else. I was, as I remarked elsewhere, a definite anomaly at the Academy, a half-Orlesian from the Free Marches, and a female (despite the legend of Dame Aveline, very few noble-born women choose the life of a _chevalier_ ). I was accepted not purely on the merits of my talent, noble blood, and promise but due to my mother’s family connections: a statement, which, I realized after I had returned from my two years’ absence, several other students also shared. They merely chose not to take the sentiment to such extremes as wearing the armor at all times.

Even I, though, chose to forgo the pauldrons most of the time: unlike the Commander.

“It is, unfortunately, the nature of your position,” he said, setting down the last pawn. “I do appreciate the gesture of offering, though.”

Something in the way he worded that sentence sent up a warning signal. I remembered my discussion with Cassandra during our recent travels when talk turned to how she and Commander Rutherford met and I started paying attention to _how_ he said things, not just _what_ he said.

“The _gesture_?” I asked, really hoping I was misreading this. “Commander…” I looked around, saw that the garden was deserted, and continued, “…Cullen, I am right here. As promised. By the definition of the word, that is hardly a gesture: that is a promise fulfilled, albeit with some delay.”

“Should I charge interest for my time, then?” Gone were the carefree smile and the relaxed gestures that made my stomach flutter just a few minutes before. He was tense now, leaning back from the board, shoulders hunched and brows drawn down, voice almost angry.

I waited, my face carefully neutral, the way I was taught at the Academy.

“I’m sorry, Roxanne,” he said more quietly after the second of silence drew out, and sighed. “That was… uncalled for. I shouldn’t be unkind when your time is so precious and I appreciate that…” He rubbed at his neck, over the old wound he tried to pretend never bothered him. “Forgive me?”

I observed the details, like _messere_ Fenris taught me years before, and decided that there was not enough data to reach a conclusion just yet. It might or might not have been some kind of inevitable reaction to his decision not to take lyrium anymore, and the withdrawal symptoms, based on what Cassandra told me, were unpredictable at best.

_It is uncharted territory, Inquisitor_ , she told me while gazing into our campfire that evening. _No Templar in living memory has ever given up lyrium willingly. As you know, we spend a considerable amount of gold and resources to secure the substance for our Templar contingent, and Ser Barris has been invaluable with bringing his connections in Orzammar to aid us. Cullen, however, has decided, shortly after joining the Inquisition, not to partake._ Her normally remorseless gaze softened as she looked at me. _You probably should have heard this directly from him, but I know you have excellent perception skills and probably picked up on it back in Haven. The other advisors are aware, for security reasons: Leliana suggested that I talk to you during this trip as we would prefer to keep it quiet._

“Of course.” I was, however, inordinately pleased with the fact that he _did_ call me by my name, and that allowed me to slip back to the language of the Game again. It was probably careless of me, but the memory of that lopsided smile still lingered, low in my stomach. “Although technically you _would_ be within your rights to… charge interest, yes, if you so desire.”

That earned me a blush, up to his ears. I bit my lip and studied the board. I truly had no idea what I was doing: and I am not necessarily talking about chess.

“I shall... take that into advisement, Inquisitor. Roxanne,” he corrected himself and it was my turn to grin. When I looked up, I found that he was staring at me with a soft expression that made him look entirely too vulnerable and made me want to reach out and touch his hair where it curled back just a little bit from his neck.

I was absolutely unfair to the man. He was—he is-- obviously way too professional to tell me outright that my clumsy attempts at the Game and what amounts to ( _Maker_ , how I blush while writing this!) _flirting_ were, while slightly flattering, clearly unwelcome and were making him distinctly uncomfortable. I _am_ really bad at this, with nothing to rely on but my mother’s most basic instructions and my Academy experiences, and nothing in the code of the _chevaliers_ or in my mother’s etiquette books could have prepared me to answer the question: how does one in my position tell someone in his position that I…

Well, _bother_. Journal-keeping, apparently, has a way of making one unfailingly honest. Let us see if I can continue with the same precision I require of myself in all other areas of my life. It is odd, how I am missing several hours of my life from back when the Breach appeared and the Temple burned, and yet I appear to have almost perfect recall of each and every one of my meetings with the Commander. The way his kindness, his steady voice and rock-solid presence pulled me back from the edge of madness back at Haven after one of Solas’ spells almost recalled just a bit too closely the traumatic events at the Conclave that were—that are-- still missing from my memory. The way he never looked at me like I was a monstrosity, a woman with a glowing hand, bleached hair and Fade-tinted eyes, forever changed by something no one understood. The way he held himself in the Haven chantry, trying to hide just how hard the concentrated arcane effects of those mages attacking us hurt him, and still thinking clearly and about our people first and foremost. The way he bent over the war table, absently accepting cups of strong coffee from Josephine’s hand at our early morning sessions while sorting through stacks of reports and murmuring ‘thank you, Ambassador’. The way he held me, firmly but gently, to his chest when he found me in the snow after Haven was obliterated, his heartbeat frantic in one second and steady and reassuring while he carried me back to the camp. And oh, the way he said ‘not in Kirkwall’ to my question not so long ago regarding whether he had anyone special in his life…that made me hope against hope that a man such as him could…

Indeed, that original word I wished to use, ‘fancy’, no longer applies, I see that now. I am not entirely sure what this is, but definitely more than professional interest, definitely more than girlish infatuation as I attempted to define it at first and definitely more than what he ever could reciprocate.

“Have you learned to play chess in the Order?” I inquired, just to fill the uncomfortably long silence between us while I pondered my next move and was relieved that none of my perturbed thoughts influenced my voice.

“Hmmm?” He seemed to relax a bit as I eased back into more neutral territory. “Actually, as a child, I would play this with my sister.” He moved his knight; his voice was wistful, full of remembrance. “She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won, which was all the time.” The softness on his features was still there, brought on, no doubt, by the memories. Of course. It was nothing whatsoever to do with me. “My brother and I practiced together for weeks.  The look on her face the day I finally won…” He paused. “Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays.”

“If for nothing else, surely for the hope of a rematch…” I started, then stopped as what he said finally sunk in. “Wait: are you implying that you have not told them you were alive?”

“I, ah…” I could have just rested my chin on my palm all day and stared at that blush. At his face. “I do not write to them as often as I should, perhaps…”

“Cullen!” I could not help myself; I glared. “They are your _family_! If my parents had to learn from scuttlebutt and hearsay I was pulled out of certain death not once, but _twice_ by the Maker’s grace, I would most assuredly be dead by _their_ hands. Not to mention my brothers’.” I softened my voice—that sounded way too harsh. “My apologies; it is presumptuous of me to think I can…”

“No!” he said hastily.  “No, you’re, of course, right. I shall… consider what you’ve said.” He watched me move my piece, then asked. “What about you, though?”

“You mean, where did I learn to play chess so awfully?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Please do not be polite; someone with your experience by now, no doubt, has reached that inevitable conclusion.”

“I actually meant to inquire about your family… if I may,” he said, softly and to my even greater embarrassment, I felt my cheeks flush.

“Oh. I see.” I covered my mouth, feigning a cough and started to talk a bit faster to cover my _faux pas_. “As you no doubt have read in Leliana’s files, both of my parents are still alive, and I have two brothers, Fredick and Rhodri. I am the eldest, but my new… position might complicate things a bit as far as inheritance is concerned. I actually plan on signing some documents once they manage to make it here to cede my rights to Fredick; he already manages everything anyway, Papa… my father being incapacitated.” I paused to explain. “It’s gout, from campaigns in Emprise du Lion.” He nodded: of course he understood, being the military man himself. “If I ever have to go there, I am to take goose-feather bedrolls, avoid the local liquors and keep my armor extra dry. I have been thoroughly educated in that regard. To be honest, I am not sure how, or when, he would be able to travel here, but I keep hoping.”

“We have great healers in Skyhold,” the Commander said warmly as he moved his other knight. I felt something flutter in my chest as I heard his reassurance. “I believe something could be done.”

“I hope, too.” I sighed, remembering the last time I saw him before I left for the Conclave. “I just hate to see him so… invalid. When I was a child, I always thought him absolutely invincible. He was the man who tossed me up in the air and let me yank on his beard, who carried me upside down by my foot all over Val Royeaux when I was five, not minding the slightest that it scandalized everyone who met us.” I giggled at the memory. “I am afraid that forever cemented our reputation as savage Marchers; me squealing in delight as Papa  lifted me up by my ankle, my carefully coiffed hair all falling over my face and my frilly knickers exposed for all the world to see. When I went back to train at the Academy, I was absolutely convinced some of the students there actually remembered me and lived in terror for _months_. Awful, I know,” I added, looking up and seeing him with a disbelieving grin on his face.

“I must confess, Inquisitor,” he started, then shook his head and started over, “Roxanne, I am having serious trouble picturing that scene.”

“Oh?” Both of my eyebrows went up. “The frilly knickers or the terror about people remembering them?”

And there I was, disguising yet again with that light Orlesian-style flirtation what I so clearly was not able to articulate. Surely, there was no hope for me and yet, the tone of his voice compelled me to try, again and again, like being in the Serpent’s Stance forever against impenetrable armor to see if I could find that little gap. And I wanted to; that realization was hitting me worse than the moving, blade-strewn pells of the Academy training grounds ever did.

“Maker’s Breath…” he muttered the only curse I have ever heard from him, and shook his head. His eyes, when he looked at me, were not exactly disapproving, but the way he held himself away from the table, shoulders slightly turned, told me the truth. “Must you… do that?”

“I apologize.” I answered promptly. Of course: I was a silly girl, dreaming about the impossible, the student being knocked over by her vastly more experienced opponent, the amateur being chastised by the master. I straightened my spine and dropped my hands to my lap, tightly and primly clutching right over left, eyes downcast, the way my mother so unsuccessfully attempted to teach me the manners of a noble lady. “I shall endeavor to behave less offensively in the future, should you so wish.”

“I don’t… I… Roxanne.” I heard his sharp, frustrated sigh and then felt a hand slide under my chin, lifting it up. “This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition. Or related matters.” His touch, even through the gloves, sent little thrills through my spine the way it never did before. I bit my lip to contain the shivers that had nothing to do with the cool wind rattling the branches of the bush next to our seats and everything to do with staring into his eyes. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

“Does that mean we should spend more time together?” It came out as a question, albeit a bit breathless. He snatched back his hand as I spoke, but not before some of his fingers swept down my neck, leaving me thoroughly confused. It is not exactly as if I am well-versed in matters of the heart, but his signals were absolutely confusing and…

 “I would… like that.” He sounded almost wistful; he glanced down, head tilted a bit to the side, as if trying to remember something long forgotten.

“Me too.” I nodded for emphasis. I threw all my dice at once, it seemed, like during those evening games at the Academy, and now my world hung in a balance. I was waiting to see, with bated breath, how it turned, for better or for worse.

And there was a smile, twisting the scar at the side of his lip, voice the softest I have ever heard from him, almost a whisper.

“You said that.” He looked back up, straight into my eyes. I was not sure why it felt like my heart just broke into a thousand pieces seeing that smile, but I swear I can still feel it now as I write. As if there was something in his past, something horrible and dark that made him question the smallest kindness, the tiniest happy thought or joy; anything that wasn’t duty, war, reports and strategies.

I know the Mark did not grant me any special powers apart from being able to close rifts and banish demons: I have no magical powers, no mystical abilities, no communing with the Maker or His Bride, whatever the whispers say. I am just a woman who is very good at killing things. But Andraste preserve me, in that moment I wished I could just heal away whatever had hurt him so thoroughly that he had to convince himself I was not merely a dream.

“We should… finish our game.” He cleared his throat after what seemed like an eternity; I glanced at the board, tearing myself away from the amber swirls in his eyes, and realized neither of us had moved any of our pieces in quite a while. “Right.  My turn?”

Yes. This journal-writing definitely took me to places within my heart and soul I did not expect to reach while attempting to serve the Maker and Our Lady to the best of my abilities. Quite a journey, and entirely due to Mother Giselle’s insistence. I shall dedicate some time to contemplate this in the Chantry, and soon.

At the moment, however, I must fetch some cold water. Quite possibly an entire bucketful.


End file.
